


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹***𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [54]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Bullying, Case Fic, Digital Art, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Medical Restraint, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Recovery, Self-Harm, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, brief mention of animal cruelty - not something that happens or is depicted, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹***𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#the-end-of-the-fing-worldThis book is one of three possible endings of the Domino series. If you are not ready to read an ending, please choose another book from theBookshelf.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Series: Domino 🁡 [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹***𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The End of the F***ing World](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685444) by Charles Forsman. 



> ####  **This is one of three possible endings. If you are not ready to read an ending, please turn back now. :)**
> 
> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[The End of the F***ing World](https://www.fantagraphics.com/teotfw-en/) \- Charles Forsman  
>  **— Cover Song:**[Bohemian Rhapsody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ9rUzIMcZQ) \- Queen

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/the-end-of-the-fing-world.jpg) |   
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Malcolm was ten when his father was arrested for murdering twenty-three people.

 _‘Monster_ ,’ they called him. The kids, the teachers, strangers he didn’t even know. The _him_ wasn’t clear, either, until one day on the way to recess, a kid got up in his face, called him ‘psycho,’ and pushed him down the stairs.

Sprawled on the linoleum with a bump on the head, other kids walking over him, he realized they weren’t talking about his father, they were talking about _him_. Malcolm.

He spent the whole night in the bathroom looking in the mirror. The hit to his forehead was superficial, now not even visible in the low light. The words had sliced much deeper to where he was crying on the inside. Well practiced at feeling nothing, as much as he prodded the wound that must have landed somewhere around the seventh intercostal, his expression in the mirror didn’t change.

 _Psychopath_. Malcolm never wanted to harm anything. He’d take home every animal at the SPCA if his mother would let him. Desires of maiming, killing, any cruelty at all had _never_ passed through his psyche. The only reason he even thought of it at that moment was his father. His father, who made him learn what a psychopath was at ten. What predatory, narcissist, and manipulation were, and how he was a primary target. What every single predictor for psychopathic personality was and an extensive tick mark assessment against his own life.

He could pretend that he wasn’t a bad person, that there wasn’t something wrong with him. But Whitly was in his blood — a serial killer lived under his roof, and he never saw it. Deep down, he knew violence wasn’t the answer, yet another part of him questioned, what if it was? What if ending the barrage of assaults against him by spilling blood from another could bring him peace?

He should want to kill something much bigger. All five-foot-ten of a man giving a charming impression of a wooly bear, ready to snap and devour anyone else who asked how severe the winter would be. It would be long. It would be cold. It would come and go just like every year it had come before. As much as his life had turned into a chilled existence, it didn’t make him want to harm anyone else.

Malcolm needed to make it through eight more years of that. Of a friendless silence that amplified every ‘monster,’ ‘psycho,’ ‘murderer’ until they were impossible to get rid of. He was branded with those labels for life because he etched them into his own mind every time he relived them.

His childhood clouded by a lack of genuine love, it was easy to get fooled and miss others’ intentions. Underneath it all, they were usually after his skin or his money, trying to get their own piece of the Whitly legacy. He thought he could get away from it, tell people they spelled his name wrong when they wrote ‘Whitly’ instead of ‘Bright,’ but he remained shouldering the burden of his father, wound around every line of his body.

He was sixteen when he sat on his bedroom floor in Gil and Jackie’s house and pounded the carpet with scuffed fists. His cellphone bounced in his lap as he worked up the courage, fought to be strong enough to punch in the digits. He’d planned the words, practiced them over and over in his head for the auspicious moment when the call connected.

“I’m calling to tell you to fuck off. I’m never going to see you again!” he shouted, voice cracking, shredded from his anger’s slice.

“You have reached Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, if you know your party’s extension, please press — “

He chucked the phone across the room, the plastic splintering into several pieces. Hearing footsteps come running down the hall, he buried his head in his knees and wrapped his arms around them as tight as he could, begging for tears to come out. The ball of lead he’d swallowed when he’d phoned the police at ten remained in his stomach, seeping poison and eating away at him, but never came out. With two worried faces hovering around him yet another time, he realized he never should have been worried about becoming a psychopath — he would never grow a taste for killing like his father. He should have been worried about his father killing him, perhaps without ever laying a hand on him.

“ _Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you_ ,” Jackie quoted to him some hours later. He hadn’t moved from the floor, but he had accepted a valerian tea and their comfort. Gil half held him and Jinxy, the cat sprawled across them, sleeping like it was any other night. Jackie alternated reading to them and leaving open space in the air for his thoughts to break through.

Malcolm’s breakthrough didn’t come until a few more years down the line. His phone buzzed in his pocket while he checked his hair to fix any lock out of place before he, Gil, and Jackie went to dinner. Answering without checking the ID, “ _You’re eighteen now, Happy Birthday_ ,” came through the line back at him, a creepy, overconfident statement that shivered memories to his feet.

He hung up before the voice could take any more power from him. Plastering a smile on his face even though his insides reminded him of years of wounds that hadn’t healed, he pushed onward to have dinner with his family.

He was graduating. He was leaving. He’d never need to see Dr. Whitly again.

* * *

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" Malcolm shrieks. He can't control his limbs, arms and legs shaking as he holds them out in front of him to block the onslaught of memories.

His father charging at him with a knife. Wading in blood up to his waist. A whale consuming him whole. Multiple times he'd nearly died. Person after person shouting _monster_. Believing the voice inside. Multiple identities, multiple _lives_ finding himself only to be lost. Consumed by the tidal barrage of the formally known as Bright, Whitly, alive…

What?

“ _Don’t touch me!_ ” He’s being pulled, restrained, prevented from freeing himself.

There’s a parasite inside of him. As much as he scratched, dug for the life-sapping beast, it still eats through his gut. His fingers can’t reach it now.

“No! No! Let me go!” He yanks and wails as his shoulder pops, his joint the only thing coming free.

He keeps struggling, but the world gets fuzzy and pulls him back under.

* * *

Walking into Dr. Whitly’s cell at Claremont, Malcolm had _never been so happy and so sad to see someone in his life_. The man’s presence brought a warmth he’d denied himself, a remembrance he shouldn’t let himself have. It wasn’t healthy — he shouldn’t _be_ there.

Was it bad that seeing his father felt… nice? What would Gabrielle say? What would he say in the late-night hours he couldn’t sleep? Would he relive the whole experience, palms sweating, the click of his shoes down the long hallway, the heavy clack of the door opening, the man’s glee at seeing his long lost… possession.

He couldn’t leave. They had a bond he couldn’t break despite his attempts in therapy. Despite his family’s efforts to keep him away. This was a setback, a regression, relinquishing progress in his daily fight to loosen their connection. Alas, he could analyze himself more easily than change his direction.

“My boy!” Dr. Whitly said, grinning at the sight. The words forced a shudder through Malcolm’s body, a flinch that he’d never learned to control. There it was, the man’s excitement even worse than he’d expected, as if a feast had been laid out for the taking.

“ _Why didn’t you already kill me?”_ Malcolm asked, looking at the floor. Pure courage and lack of self-preservation may have gotten him through the door, but he was left puddling at the man’s feet, unsure he’d be able to wait to hear the answer before escaping.

Deep laughter shaking the ground under his feet was the only response. It froze him in place, the air dropping several degrees. _He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be anywhere._

* * *

When Malcolm wakes, he tries his wrists first but cannot move. All the way up his arms to his chest, nothing. His legs have a similar treatment. He’s in medical restraints. “Help me,” he mumbles, his speech slurred.

There’s a face in front of him in an instant. Vision blurry, he can’t quite tell who it is, stained glass and prisms distorting his perspective. Their hand keeps tapping against the bed, and it takes him a moment to realize they’re hitting a call button. For a nurse. “Help me,” he repeats.

“Kid, it’s Gil.” There’s a hand on his shoulder, massaging his neck. A grounding force that can help him decipher this confusing world between the covers that taunts him with fabricated pages of half truths and hallucinations.

 _Gil!_ “Help me.”

“Help is coming. You’re okay. You’re here with me, you’re safe.”

The world doesn’t look any different, a kaleidoscope of visions mirroring his perception, masking any attempts to communicate with his friend. “Help me.”

“Bright, the nurse is coming. You’re in the hospital.”

It’s all too much, too confusing for him to follow what’s going on. He closes his eyes a moment, hoping the world will be clearer when he reopens them.

* * *

Malcolm got stuck in a place and didn’t realize it, memory after memory distorted with what-ifs, worst-case scenarios, and might have beens. All of his deepest fears twisting together, they pulled him under into darkness, preventing any light from the world.

“What can I do?” his mother asked, frown gazing out the door, into the distance. She was younger then, the gaping wounds from his father still fresh, exposed for the world of Page Six piranhas to devour.

“More,” Gil said, the admission pulling his face into a deep frown as if he knew how much the words would hurt.

Malcolm was supposed to be in bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He knew his friend likely remained in the house, so he tiptoed out to the stairs, hoping a glimpse might help him feel safer. At his age, he was aware he shouldn’t listen to their conversation, but he couldn’t bring himself to relinquish the comfort.

“Most days, he won’t say a peep.” She glared at Gil, firing daggers through him. “And _you_ expect _me_ to do what, read his mind?”

“Jessica — “

“Come out and say it if you think I’m doing a shit job as a mother,” she leveled with contempt.

“That’s not… Jess, you’re missing things sometimes. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, or — “

Malcolm was surprised Gil didn’t catch fire on the spot. When he or Ainsley got that look, they were in _trouble_ , and they knew to make themselves scarce until she cooled off. Gil didn’t appear to possess that knowledge — he needed help. “Gil!” Malcolm called.

The man whipped around, wilting at his presence. Malcolm didn’t know what he did to put the look of sorrow on Gil’s face, but he wanted it gone. “I’m sorry,” Gil said, but Malcolm wasn’t sure whether that was directed to his mother or him. Was that what one said when someone’s father turned out to be a serial killer, and their family was left trying to find any pieces to put back together?

Malcolm didn’t understand. “Gil?”

* * *

Malcolm shoots out of bed with a start. Well, partway at least. Sweat beads run all over his forehead, trickling his nightmares into the physical world. Reaching to brush them back, there’s a pull at his wrists.

He’s restrained. He struggles, trying to get loose. Then he remembers. “Gil?” he calls. Then a little louder, “Gil?”

Gil’s sitting on the side of the bed in an instant, hand snaking around Malcolm’s back to rub his neck. “Kid, I’m right here. You’re safe. In the hospital. Can you stay awake with me a minute? If they can assess you, these restraints can come off.”

Malcolm pulls at the restraints again and moans, a dull ache emerging from his shoulder.

“Kid, I need you to stay calm, or they can’t come off,” Gil warns, hand squeezing tighter at the back of his neck.

“I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me,” Malcolm pleads. He never killed his father, never killed anyone, doesn’t want anyone to suffer.

“I know. You’re sick.”

“I’m not psychotic.” He pulls at his wrists again. “It wasn’t _me_.”

“Mr. Bright, how are you feeling?” The doctor who enters through the sliding glass door looks a hell of a lot like Dr. Whitly, bushy hair and thick plastic frames doubling the impact of his steel eyes. Malcolm squirms again.

“Malcolm, you’re safe. The doctor’s only here to check on you.”

As the man steps closer, he shrinks away as best he can, pulling at the restraints to break free. Nothing will budge, trapping him in a hell of dominoes falling over and over again.

His only escape is darkness.

_Monster._

* * *

Gil rests his forehead on his knees in the back of the ICU waiting room, tears streaming into his pant legs. Though Malcolm’s condition had been upgraded from comatose, he woke tearing his skin apart at the neck of his hospital gown, bloodied fingernails coming back, ready to paint a grisly portrait. Whether a result of night terrors, hallucinations, or a drug interaction, Gil doesn’t know, but watching it happen sunk his stomach to the hospital basement — he had to leave to throw up after Malcolm was sleeping again.

He came back to the kid in restraints that he had a litany of questions about. He understands their purpose, to protect Malcolm, and they conceptually aren’t much different from the ones the kid uses at home, yet the setting lends them more gravity than they perhaps deserve. Unsure how Malcolm would feel about them, his greater struggle is advocating for the kid — is this one of the things he needs to press or not? The alternatives argue in Gil’s head, missing Malcolm’s voice for an opinion.

Malcolm had woken a few times since, but it was never long enough to be reassessed. He seemed terrified of something, like each time he fell back asleep, nightmares awaited to tear him apart. Maybe they continue when he wakes. Through the mask of sedation, Gil wonders if they both see the same thing — a nightmare searching for a resolution.

Dosed with henbane, the scopolamine ravaged Malcolm’s system, caused involuntary movements, hallucinations, gave his pre-existing conditions a run for their money. Though CSU had traced it to some of the books on scene, Gil doesn’t know what Malcolm did to ingest so much of it. _Probably touched his face or stuck his fingers in his mouth_ one part of his mind thinks, while another knows that in the amount of time he had been gone, he could have inhaled a whole lot of it straight from the pages. Regardless, it started a nightmare that has the kid confined to the ICU. And by extension, his family.

Jessica had gone home to get his familiar weighted blanket and Twizzlers in an attempt to coax him back to them. While Gil sits waiting for her, he remembers they also have the panda. A stand-in for the one Malcolm had clutched so many times as a kid, even accidentally brought home on many occasions. A symbol that there’s softness, safety waiting for him if he could only reach out for it. _Please let him reach for us_.

Gil knows even if something positive happens the next time Malcolm wakes, it won’t be because of the collection of items, but it soothes their minds, gives them something to do while waiting for triumph.

Tragedy isn’t an option.

At a loss for what to do until Jessica returns, he calls the team to try to sort the fragments of case drifting in his brain. “Any change?” Dani asks. There’s shuffling in the background and then the rustle of air that he’s on speaker.

“He’s having a hard time recognizing where he is — that he’s awake. It’s rough.”

“I’m sorry, boss,” JT says.

“Any update?”

“Traced the scopolamine production to Gary M. Goodman’s greenhouse. Enough evidence to stick.” JT sighs. “But we’ve gotta find him first.”

“ _What?_ ” Gil growls.

“Slipped before we served the warrant to search. Got the evidence, but not the guy.”

“ _Shit_.” Gil’s teeth clamp together, grinding his fury into the enamel.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve got a BOLO out,” Dani shares. “We’re going back through our findings to see if there are any likely locations he would have fled to.”

“Credit cards, receipts,” Gil lists.

“Twenty-first century isn’t really his thing. He used email because he had to in order to reach Veronica more frequently, but that’s about it. Gonna be a cash trail.”

In the middle of the investigation, they know better than he does. He’s practically trying to coach from another stadium’s sidelines. Sighing, he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Keep me updated.”

“He’s awake — that’s better than before,” JT says. Gil thinks that’s supposed to be comforting, but the visuals inside the hospital say otherwise.

“I’ll talk to you both soon. Look out for each other.”

Gil hangs up and stays there, folded in half, waiting for relief to come. It doesn’t. His stomach is miserable, churning with caffeine and worry. His teeth have a fuzz of a bit too long between brushing, the taste sour on his tongue.

“Gil, you alright?” Jessica asks, her heels coming to a stop beside him. She sets a large tote at his feet and sits next to him.

“Yeah.” He slowly sits up. Covering a yawn, he stretches and looks to her. “You got it?”

“And three different kinds of Twizzlers. Let’s see him try to say I never indulge that sweet tooth.” Jessica leans against him and wraps her arm around him. “Come here a second?”

The small hug renews his resolve to try reaching Malcolm again, to try to help him stay calm until the kid’s strong enough to make it through this. “Alright, let’s do this.” He kisses the top of her head.

He takes the tote bag and they walk back to Malcolm’s room. Gil spreads the blanket over Malcolm’s form and snuggles the panda against his face. Huddled in the corner of the room, all they need to do is wait.

* * *

A groan wakes Gil from his sleep on the floor, joints protesting at every pressure point melded with the linoleum. Jessica is still asleep in the chair. Gil creaks to his feet, sits on the edge of Malcolm’s bed, and rubs the back of his neck. “You’re okay, Bright. It’s just me and your mom. You’re safe.”

“Jackie.”

Hell. “Bright, it’s Gil. You’re safe.”

The kid’s head shoots off of the bed, eyes flying wide in panic. Shudder. Panic. Shudder. Gil gives him a minute to breathe, pants leveling to rapid but decreasing breaths, eyes opening to stressed but not flight risk. When his eyes start to focus, finally revealing the Malcolm they’ve been missing, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Stuck.” Malcolm’s tongue clicks at the roof of his mouth. “Did I have a night terror or something? I’m tied down kinda tight here.”

“You think you can stay calm a few minutes with me? I’ll hit the call button and we can get you assessed to get out of these.”

Malcolm nods. Gil presses the button and holds his breath, hoping the kid can manage to maintain his relaxed demeanor. “Mother’s sleeping?” Malcolm asks.

“Yeah.”

“She been home at all?”

“A little. Brought you your blanket.” Gil points out the weighted blanket on the bed. “But we’ve spent most of our time here.”

“The nightmares are awful, Gil,” Malcolm admits. “It’s like everything is real. Like I can’t escape.”

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“Mr. Bright, how are you feeling?” the doctor says from the door.

Malcolm stiffens. It’s the second time Gil’s seen it happen, and he doesn’t want a repeat performance. “Kid, what is it?” he asks, attempting to block his view of the rest of the room.

“Looks like Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm ekes out.

Gil flips to the doctor and fully obstructs Malcolm’s view. “Can we talk in the hall?” he requests. “It’ll only take a minute. It’s important for patient care.”

The doctor doesn’t appear to want to follow along with Gil’s request, yet he reluctantly obliges and returns to the hall. Gil walks away from the sliding glass door so the doctor will be fully out of view. “Malcolm has had several past traumatic experiences,” he starts.

“I know that from his chart.”

“You’re reminding him of his father, a man who inflicted several of those traumas. I don’t know if it’s the setting, or he’s confused, or his body’s exhausted, but I know you’re making him feel unsafe.”

“I’m not trying to — “

“Regardless of intent, he’s terrified. I’d like to request a non-male doctor to see him and do the assessment.”

The man’s brow crinkles, not pleased with the request. “I’m giving him — “

“And please keep giving him the best care, but I need a different doctor in the room, please. _He_ needs someone else.” Gil straightens to his full height and gives his best Lieutenant voice.

“It’s going to take a little bit,” the doctor gives in. “Call the nurse if he gets agitated again.”

“Thank you.” Gil slips back into Bright’s room to find Jessica sitting on the edge of the bed talking to him.

“Did you bring me the bear?” Malcolm asks.

“Yeah, kid.”

“Thank you.”

Gil takes up the other side of the bed and slides his arm across the kid’s shoulders. There’s a slight tremor going through Malcolm’s frame, but it’s nowhere near as bad as before. “A different doctor is going to come,” Gil explains. “Not a male. So it’s gonna be a little bit before you can get assessed.”

“Okay.” Malcolm swallows.

“I’ve gotta ask — is there anything else in here scaring you?”

“You mean besides the industrial-grade restraints?” Malcolm jokes, a wan smile accompanying it.

Gil could argue medical-grade, but it would only agitate the kid more. He’s not thrilled with their presence either, yet he understands their necessity. “Besides those. They’ll be gone soon.”

“Can I have some Jell-O? Only lemon, though.”

“I will get the Jell-O,” Jessica says, standing. “Be good for Gil.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, then closes them. “Is there anything I can help with on the case?”

“Of course that’s what you’re thinking about right now,” Gil huffs.

“Keep me busy, keep me calm.”

“JT and Dani are now familiar with the entire bibliography of A. S. Harper.” They’ve probably looked through more books than Gil has at his place at this point.

“Your favorite. I was looking at one of her books on scene.”

“And it landed you here. The pages were loaded with scopolamine.”

“Did I go full zombie?”

“Coma, kid.” Gil takes a deep breath. “I don’t really want to joke about it.”

“Explains the dreams.”

“That’s what’s been going on?”

“I’m not sure.” Malcolm’s brow furrows. “Tell me what else you found — let me help with the profile.”

“JT and Dani already identified the man responsible. A ghostwriter who wrote A. S. Harper’s latest books. She’s been dead a few years. He was frustrated someone else was getting the notoriety and annoyed his advances were going unnoticed.”

“So let me help with something else… the paperwork?”

Gil chuckles. “I better have them check if you hit your head if you’re offering to do paperwork.”

“Arrest reports, something?”

“We didn’t bring him in yet, kid. Can’t find him.”

“So I’m stuck here, and he’s… somewhere.”

“Yeah. But you’re not dead,” Gil attempts to joke, but his throat catches and he’s forced to swallow. “So maybe try to relax a little here.”

The sheen in Malcolm’s eyes glows up at him. “Can I go home?”

Gil smiles. “How about we start with getting unhooked?”

“I’ve got your Jell-O,” Jessica announces and sweeps into the room with a full tray. She sets it on the rolling table and begins opening lids to many things that do not look like Jell-O.

“ _Mother_ — ”

“Broth, or apple juice, or — “

“Only Jell-O. And you’re _not_ feeding it to me.”

“Well, you get your pick of the two of us unless you plan to go face-first into the dish.”

Malcolm looks to Gil, so Gil takes that as a sign to pick up the spoon. Pressing the button on the bed, Gil sits him up a little and gives him a few spoonfuls until the small serving is gone. “More?” Malcolm requests, big eyes looking back at him.

“Something else first,” Jessica says.

“Sweet or salty?” Gil asks.

“More Jell-O.”

After days in a coma and several negative experiences coming out of it, Gil thinks Malcolm has earned the right to more Jell-O. He sneaks the lid off another container and gives him a spoonful. “ _Gil Arroyo_ ,” Jessica protests, grinding her shoe into the floor.

“In trouble with the boss,” Malcolm jokes after he swallows. “See what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“ _Malcolm_ — “

“Mr. Bright, mind if I come in?” a doctor asks from the door, feet still outside.

Gil watches Malcolm’s reaction, and he doesn’t seem to experience any undue stress. “Sure,” Malcolm says. “Are you the one who can get me out of this?”

“I’m Dr. Lawrence. You can call me Bea. They/them.”

“Bright. He/him.”

“Can I shake your hand?”

“Sure.”

Gil steps back so their conversation can continue and huddles with Jessica to the side. “I think he’ll actually get out this time,” she comments.

“I think so, too,” he responds. “But he’s going to want to go home as soon as that happens.”

“Over my — “

“Don’t say it, Jess. Please.”

They watch as a nurse removes every one of the straps. She offers to apply lotion on his skin, but he declines. “I brought yours from home,” Gil shares. “Can get it for you when you’re done.”

By the time the doctor and nurse are finished, Malcolm’s left with only a pair of restraints for sleeping and a bed alarm. Gil chuckles at the pout on his face. “You must be tired, kid — why don’t you sleep a little?”

Malcolm shakes his head. With what he said about his nightmares, Gil imagines sleep isn’t the first thing on his mind. “My meds are probably messed up again. Hate losing progress.”

“Things will stabilize. What would you like to do to keep busy? I can read you my book, or there’s fuzzy socks from Edrisa, some Twizzlers…”

“I can’t eat them yet, but I’d like to smell the package. And I’ll take the socks.”

Malcolm stubbornly wants to put the socks on himself, so Gil lets him struggle. His face winces as the change in position pulls at his raw skin. “What’s this from?” he asks, touching his neck.

“Your nails.”

Malcolm looks at his hands as if trying to decide whether he believes the story. Considering he’d been restrained a short time ago, Gil hopes he can put two and two together.

“I don’t think death by crocodile would be the worst thing,” Malcolm says.

“ _Malcolm Whitly_.”

Malcolm flinches.

“Jess...“ Gil steps in.

“Bright, mother,” Malcolm argues. “It’s disrespectful to call me anything else.”

“A name change doesn’t get you a fairytale ending.” Jessica shifts her weight to one hip.

“It gets me myself. My identity. Me.” He hugs the panda next to him, and Gil can’t help but think he looks like the ten-year-old boy he’d encountered twenty years ago.

“Can we please table this argument for a time your son isn’t in the ICU?” Gil pleads.

“He’s fine,” Jessica says. Gil’s pretty sure he knows where the kid got the line from.

“Mother, you can go home,” Malcolm instructs.

“We’ll both be here until you’re discharged,” Gil tells him.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’ve demonstrated you’ll fly the coop as soon as you’re unsupervised, so yeah, I’m gonna stay.”

“Then I want to work on the case.”

“ _Bright_ — “

Malcolm tips his head side to side, and Gil watches the wheels turning. “At least call the team and see if I can be of assistance,” Malcolm barters.

Gil doesn’t want to bother them while they’re focused on locating the suspect, yet at the same time, they’ll want to know of Malcolm's updated status. A simple _hello, how are you, goodbye_ will do the trick. There don’t need to be any case notes exchanged. “ _Fine_ ,” he concedes. Clearing the space in front of Malcolm, he holds out the tray to Jessica. “Jess, can you take this?”

“You can eat it, mother,” Malcolm offers. She glares at both of them with a scorn that makes those who are unfamiliar with her wilt. The two men smirk instead, accustomed to her demeanor. “Try to get her to go home,” he tells Gil.

“Losing battle.” Gil takes out his phone. “Alright, Columbo, let’s call our friends.”

“Why am I Columbo? What if I want to be Kojak?”

“Whoever you are, let’s do this before naptime.”

“I don’t need a nap.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _Gil_.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Bright.”

“If I sleep, it might be.”

“If you don’t, it will be.”

While talking to the team on speakerphone, Malcolm's eyes start to dip closed, then eventually stay that way. “Did we lose you, boss?” JT asks.

“The kid’s out,” Gil says.

“Finally,” Dani jokes. “Thought he was going to run after Gary himself.”

“He’s on a bed alarm, so he wouldn’t get very far.”

“Like that’s any harder than an ankle monitor,” JT scoffs.

Malcolm stirs in his sleep, reminding Gil that he needs to wrap him into his restraints. “I’ve got to get going — keep me updated.”

With Malcolm's wrists secured to the bed, Gil returns to watching over him. Always. What they’ve done since the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another ending or head to the [Closing Video & Credits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588612#workskin). :)


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